


Fits Like

by 2liga



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Glove Kink, Hand & Finger Kink, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, you know how this is going
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-10
Updated: 2015-10-10
Packaged: 2018-04-25 16:24:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4967944
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/2liga/pseuds/2liga
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sergio loves Iker’s hands. So it’s strange that lately he’s starting to think that he’s been developing a ...thing, for lack of a better word, for the times that Iker’s hands are out of view, safely hidden within his gloves.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fits Like

**Author's Note:**

> um. so. just flat-out goalie glove kink here, if that's not what you're into you might want to back away, slowly.
> 
> this was written a while ago so cast your mind back if you can to when Iker was still at Madrid.

 

 

Sergio loves Iker’s hands.

They’re strong (when they’re punching a ball out of the net or smacking an unruly defender upside the head) but also gentle (when they’re at the small of Sergio’s back, steadying him). The centres of Iker’s palms are soft and pale, curving up to the row of calluses below fingers that are almost delicate-looking, like pianist’s fingers, his knuckles just this side of too bony, the skin stretched over them white when he clenches his fists. Iker’s hands are big, good goalkeeping hands that are sure and steady and reliable. Sergio loves Iker’s hands, whether they are being waved exasperatedly at him for whatever reason or tangling in his hair after Iker’s had a bit too much to drink and lets his guard down. Sergio likes it when Iker touches him. He’s so often the one initiating contact between them and whenever Iker moves of his own accord Sergio feels embarrassingly fluttery inside.

But the point is- Sergio loves Iker’s hands.

So it’s strange that lately he’s starting to think that he’s been developing a ... _thing_ , for lack of a better word, for the times that Iker’s hands are out of view, safely hidden within his gloves.

His gloves.

Sergio doesn’t quite know what it is but there’s something about Iker wearing his gloves. Maybe, he thinks, it has something to do with the matches: Iker standing behind him wearing those gloves, that commanding presence palpable at all times, waving the defensive line into position, the power and control exhibited by the man and represented by the armband but somehow connected with those goddamn _gloves._ With the adrenaline always pumping through his system during matches and Iker always so close, Sergio decides, a few wires must have gotten crossed somewhere along the line. A few rerouted reactions and a few misplaced associations but whatever the reason the fact remains that the last match Iker hadn’t taken his gloves off before curling his arms around Sergio after the final whistle, and Sergio had spent an extra fifteen minutes in the showers, biting his lip and hoping that the post-victory Madrid dressing room was loud enough to cover up the soft sounds edging out of him as he desperately jerked off, the feel of Iker’s gloves as they’d rested on the curve of his waist still imprinted on his mind.

It’s becoming a little ridiculous, and Sergio helplessly knows that it can’t possibly go on forever as just some filthy little secret: Iker is wearing his gloves a good majority of the time that they see each other. It’s not as though it’s exactly a rare occurrence.

Things finally come to a head after an easy win at home. Sergio only supposes that it was better than the alternative.

He’s just finished in the shower and emerged to find the last gaggle of his team mates about to leave. They manage to extract a few promises from him that he’ll swing by Marcelo’s later that night and then Sergio’s alone in the dressing room except for Iker, also late in leaving.

Iker is sitting on the dressing room bench, and he’s playing with his gloves because _of course he is_ and suddenly all Sergio wants is to get out of there and be home as quickly as possible so he can spend the proper amount of time committing to memory the image of Iker, sitting there shirtless with his knees spread to stretch the fabric of his shorts tantalisingly across his thighs, casually spinning his gloves from hand to hand.

Sergio tries to get dressed in a composed manner, a feat made difficult by the fact that he’s attempting not to drop his towel before he can pull on his clothes in order to somewhat hide from Iker what is happening between his legs. It doesn’t make for the most graceful sequence of events; Sergio clutching at the towel with one hand while trying to shimmy awkwardly into his briefs. He decides to forgo the skinny jeans he’d brought in favour of a pair of shorts, which are much easier and faster to pull on.

Next to him Iker has changed into jeans and a t-shirt. Sergio’s dick is disappointed to lose the view of Iker’s flat stomach and upper arms (Christ those arms) but his head is relieved. Iker looks good enough _with_ clothes. It’s really not fair when Sergio sees him without.

He says as much out loud, trying to shake himself out of it and letting the edge of a complaining whine enter his voice because he knows it’ll make Iker laugh. Out of the two of them Sergio is probably the more traditionally fit, with his broader shoulders and narrower waistline, but he likes to joke about Iker’s status as something of a sex symbol.

Iker rolls his eyes with a snicker and swats at Sergio. He can’t quite reach as Sergio dances backwards so he grabs his discarded gloves and uses them to cover the missing centimetres, catching Sergio this time square in the back.

It’s not much contact really, but the feeling of the synthetic fabric on his bare skin strikes something that has a little bit to do with all his memories of Iker touching him after matches and a little bit to do with the fact that he’s been fixated on these goddamn keeper gloves for the past month and Sergio freezes. He can’t help it, he really can’t. A small moan slips through his lips. Just a tiny sound, but Iker catches it. His raises an eyebrow and Sergio can see him recognising the noise for what it is. He winces. Joke-flirting is one thing. It’s standard locker room procedure, and even more so between the two of them but this is something else entirely.

“Sergio?” Iker says, slowly. Questioningly.

Sergio blushes. He’s debating how best to explain himself when Iker reaches out _again_ and this time deliberately trails one of the gloves down Sergio’s spine, all the way from the base of his neck to where his ass curves beneath his shorts. And Sergio can’t stop himself the second time any more than he could have the first. He whimpers. He arches his back ever so slightly. It’s enough.

“ _Sergio.”_ Iker says again and it’s not a question anymore. His voice is thoughtful. His eyes are dark. He looks down and Sergio really, really wishes that his shorts didn’t _cling_ quite so much. It’s fairly obvious what’s happening between his legs.

“Post-match adrenaline?” he tries to offer weakly, but there’s no way Iker’s going to let him get away with that, not now.

He slides on one of his gloves. Slowly. Deliberately. Keeping his eyes locked on Sergio’s the whole time. Sergio bites his lip.

Iker stands up from the bench and begins to walk slowly around Sergio as he adjusts the glove about his wrist. God, Sergio shouldn’t be this turned on just from Iker putting on a single glove but he is. Fuck, he really is. It’s not just the glove itself but the reminder that it poses of who Iker is: the goalkeeper, the captain. Real Madrid. Spain. He thinks of all the things those gloves have done for club and country and what they’re doing now, to him.

His hand drifts to his crotch without him even thinking about it, palming at his hard dick through the thin material. He needs- something, right now. Iker could honestly just stand there putting on his gloves and Sergio would jack off to the sight alone.

A hand reaches out and stops him. “Don’t touch yourself,” Iker murmurs, still circling him. “That’s my job.”

Sergio nearly sobs. Iker’s voice, gorgeous on a normal day, is downright erotic used like this. All low tones and silky inflections, and running underneath the steel of a captain used to being listened to.

He obeys. He keeps his hands at his sides.

“Good boy.” Iker says, he actually fucking says and _oh for fuck’s sake_ Sergio is going to come having barely even been touched, just talked to, if Iker keeps this up.

Iker tucks two fingers into the waistband of Sergio’s shorts. “Off.”

Sergio’s never jumped to follow directions as quickly as he does now, pulling the shorts down to his ankles and stepping out of them.

“And those.”

He strips off his briefs and stands, nothing left to cover what Iker already knows: that Sergio is incredibly, embarrassingly hard.

Sergio’s not a shy person by nature. He knows he has a good body and he doesn’t mind being naked in front of people. He likes the way he’s built, likes the taper of his waist and the flat planes of his thighs. He knows he’s easy to look at.

He enjoys the way Iker’s eyes follow the lines of his body, starting from the broad set of his shoulders down to his stomach and between his legs. Sergio likes being admired. He thrives off of it. Especially when it’s admiration coming from someone like Iker, whom he both respects and covets. He’s getting an unbelievable high just from the idea that Iker seems to want him as well. It’s heady, exhilarating.

Then Iker stops just looking and starts touching, and everything notches up in intensity. He pulls Sergio in close and hitches him up so that he’s practically straddling one of Iker’s legs. The friction of Iker’s jeans on his bare cock is unspeakable, almost equal to the feeling of Iker grabbing at his ass through the glove he’s wearing.

“You like that, Sergio?” Iker says, breathlessly. “Huh? You like my hands on you like this?”

Sergio just nods, not trusting himself to open his mouth and actually form words when he feels something approaching a scream building in his throat. Iker pushes his hand between the cleft of Sergio’s ass, the hot fabric of the glove soft against his skin while the stitched edges scrape nearly raw. The contrast in sensations is driving him crazy.

Iker still has one bare hand and it’s this one that he lifts to Sergio’s lips, running a finger over the small marks where Sergio has bitten down while trying to keep quiet. He pauses. Sergio is breathing hard against the exposed skin of Iker’s hand. Iker is watching him closely, his own breathing controlled but almost _too_ controlled, the perfectly managed in and out that Sergio recognises as Iker forcibly keeping himself stable. The thought that he’s brought his unflappable captain to the edge of his control is almost as good as Iker’s hands on him.

Sergio pouts his lips out just slightly, letting Iker’s finger slip inside his mouth. He darts his tongue against it and Iker sucks in a sharp breath, Sergio watching him from half-lidded eyes. There’s a glimmer of thoughtfulness in Iker’s expression and he’s pulling both his hands back. Deprived of contact, Sergio frowns and is about to protest when Iker slips on his second glove, and pushes his way back into Sergio’s space.

“You like my gloves?”

“Yeah,” Sergio tells him, voice not much more than just breathing out. “I like them.”

Iker grins and lifts his second now-gloved hand back up to Sergio’s face, tilting his chin. There’s barely a centimetre to choose between them in height but suddenly in this circumstance Iker seems very tall.

“Suck.” It’s a command.

Sergio goes a little weak at the knees. He does as he is told. He takes Iker’s index finger into his mouth and sucks at it, all the while watching Iker.

“God, Sese,” Iker says roughly, slowly pushing another gloved finger between Sergio’s lips, his thumb securely tucked under his chin, holding his jaw in place. “Your _mouth._ ” His other hand is back where it had been, gently flexing his fingers against the softness of Sergio’s ass. “Your perfect mouth. The things I want to do to you-” he cuts himself off with a low moan. Sergio closes his eyes.

He’s running his tongue over the fingers, tasting the fabric and memorising the way the texture of the stitching rubs in his mouth. He bites down gently and Iker makes a small, incredibly attractive noise in the back of his throat, feeling the pressure of Sergio’s teeth through the gloves.

“Fuck, Sergio-” Iker hisses and pulls his hand back. Sergio has time to let out a slightly indignant sound of disappointment before Iker is kissing him wildly, biting at his lower lip and licking his way all around Sergio’s mouth as he tangles his hands in Sergio’s hair.

Sergio responds enthusiastically, his own arms leaving his sides to wrap around Iker, pulling him closer. He loves kissing Iker, he likes the scratchiness of Iker’s stubble and the line of his cheekbones and the smell of the soap he uses. He smiles into the kiss.

“God, you’re ridiculous,” Iker says and he sounds half-affectionate, half-ruined. He’s hard in his jeans, erection pressing against Sergio’s bare leg through the material. They both seem to become aware of the fact at the same time and Sergio hasn’t sucked a dick in what seems like forever but when Iker twists his hair with those gloved fingers and pushes with just the slightest suggestion of _down_ , Sergio drops to his knees as easily as if he did it every day.

“I want to suck you off,” he says, words tripping over themselves in his haste to say them as he tugs down the zipper of Iker’s jeans. “God, Iker. I want to suck you off so bad, get my mouth on your cock. Wanted to for ages.”

A moan uncurls itself from the back of Iker’s throat and he tightens his grip on Sergio’s hair. “Christ, Sergio...”

Iker is big. There are two things that are common knowledge when a group of people share a locker room: how terrible your feet smell after a few hours of hard running, and the size of your cock. And Iker is _big,_ Sergio knows this. But there’s a definite difference between catching a glimpse in the showers and being suddenly a few scant centimetres from a hard cock straining against fabric and already leaking slightly, a damp patch spreading from the head.

Sergio eases Iker’s briefs down and takes a second to appreciate that he’s actually about to suck Iker Casillas’ dick. The gloved hands in his hair scrape lightly against his scalp, reinforcing the idea. God. Everything is turning him on.

He looks up and Iker is watching him, pupils blown. Sergio doesn’t break eye contact as he leans forward and takes the head of Iker’s cock in his mouth, parting his lips but not applying any pressure. Iker draws a shaky breath, gazing at Sergio as he finally begins to move his mouth, letting his tongue roll over the silky skin at the head, teasing out a few more drops of precome.

It’s not the best blowjob that Sergio’s ever given. He’s out of practice for one thing and for another, he can barely concentrate with the feeling of one hand in his hair and the other at the back of his neck. He’s been preoccupied by those fucking gloves for so long and having them finally on him, in this situation, is wrecking any self-control he might previously have possessed.

Luckily Iker seems to be as on edge as Sergio is and it’s not long before he’s spilling down Sergio’s throat with a choked moan, Sergio letting him without complaint. He’d nearly forgotten why he liked giving head so much: the satisfaction of taking someone apart piece by piece, the bitter tightness of his throat afterwards. It required a certain temperament to enjoy sucking cock and no one could ever accuse Sergio of failing to possess said temperament.

 “Come here.” Iker gasps. “Sergio.”

Sergio barely hears him, senses overloaded with the taste of come in his mouth and the feeling of his hair being pulled and the smell of the gloves: grass and dirt with the acrid pang of synthetic fabric lingering beneath. He’s never been this turned on just from giving a blowjob in his life.

 _“Sergio.”_ Iker says again and this time he forcibly drags Sergio off his dick and up to meet his mouth, biting at Sergio’s bottom lip while tangling his fingers in Sergio’s hair.

Sergio is still hard, harder than he’s been in a long time, his cock curving up against his stomach, begging for friction, anything.

He catches Iker looking, a question in his eyes, and tries to wave him off.

“I can do it, it’s fine,” Sergio pants, slipping a hand between his legs and running a finger against the soft skin around the base of his cock, but Iker grabs his hand and pulls it away before he can touch himself properly.

“I told you, Sergio,” Iker says, voice low and in the same tone as when he’s given Sergio an instruction on the pitch that hasn’t been followed quite to his standards. God, Sergio is going to be royally fucked for training tomorrow, with all this in his head. He already spends enough time looking at Iker as it is. He really doesn’t need to start getting hot and bothered every time Iker commands him to do something. “Touching you? That’s _my_ job.”

Outfitted as he is Iker loses a lot of his dexterity but the sight of the familiar gloves wrapped in this way around his cock more than makes up for the clumsiness of the handjob itself. Sergio’s so hypnotised by the sight of Iker jerking him off that he doesn’t notice Iker’s other hand moving until he feels the sharp smack of it against his ass, the force behind it and the sting making him gasp aloud.

“ _Fuck,_ oh god _Iker-”_

Iker smacks him again, other hand still working itself up and down the shaft of Sergio’s now desperately leaking cock and Sergio has to bury his face in Iker’s shoulder to muffle his shout. He’s so close now, he’s going to come, he _has_ to come.

“Iker, I’m going to. I’m going-”

“Shh, don’t. Don’t come yet. Can you do that? Do you think you can do that for me?” Iker’s voice is soft but it’s his captain’s voice again. It’s not a voice that Sergio can disobey.

Sergio closes his eyes tightly and tries to level his breathing. He nods.

“Good. You’re so good for me.” Iker rubs a comforting circle against his back, the feel of the gloves on his spine only serving to drive Sergio further along. It’s the same touch that Iker usually gives him to reassure him during matches, and there are going to be some problems if this is what he starts associating with the gesture. Sergio shivers. He wishes Iker was wearing his kit. Kit and gloves. And his hands on Sergio’s dick. The mental image nearly makes him lose it again.

Iker is still stroking Sergio’s cock but his touch has become lighter, slower, more teasing. Sergio wavers on the edge.

“Do you want me to spank you again?” Iker asks him, softly. “Did you like that?”

Sergio nods wordlessly.

“I’m going to need to hear you say it, nene.”

“Yes. _Please.”_

Iker responds with another sharp crack of his gloves against Sergio’s now reddening ass. The sound is nothing short of pornographic.

“Do you want to come?”

“Yes, God; _Iker,_ please,” Sergio gasps, writhing.

Iker smacks him again, snapping his hand away to leave a sting. Sergio bites back at a shout but it escapes him anyway, ringing out over the faint echo of Iker’s gloves against his skin.

“Do you _need_ to?”

“Fuck- _yes_ , I need to, I need to-”

“Then come. Come for me.”

Sergio comes with a sob of relief, spilling desperately over Iker’s gloves and his own stomach. His shoulders are shaking and his knees are about to give out. If he kept track, it would likely have gone up on a list of some of the better orgasms he’s had. He might start, just so he can put ‘Iker Casillas, with gloves’ in the number one spot.

Iker sits down heavily on the bench and guides Sergio with him, pulling him in so that Sergio is straddling Iker’s lap, his own legs hanging over the other side of the bench. It’s an attractive position to be in and if Sergio weren’t worn out already he would probably be squirming to find himself practically riding Iker’s dick in his lap. As it is, he only rests his forehead on Iker’s shoulder, nuzzling slightly into the crook of his neck.

Iker strips off his decidedly soiled gloves and drops them to the bench besides him. He wraps his arms around Sergio, hands steady at his back, stroking gently along the ridges of his spine and dusting apologetically over his still red and stinging backside. God, but Sergio loves Iker’s hands.

“Thanks.” Sergio says, slightly sheepishly into Iker’s shoulder after a few moments of silence, managing to find his voice. “For, um. Indulging that.”

Iker pulls back slightly and lifts his shoulder to nudge Sergio’s face up so their gazes meet. He raises an eyebrow, mock offended. “’Indulging that’? You make it sound as though you’re the only one who enjoyed it, nene.” He lets one of his hands drop lower on Sergio’s back until his fingers are playing about the hollow at the base of Sergio’s spine right above the swell of his ass. “As though you’re the only one who wanted it.”

Sergio digs his fingers into Iker’s shoulders, his cock not quite stiffening again but definitely getting interested.

 “I know you like the gloves,” Iker continues in a murmur, leaning in, “but I think they might get in the way of what I want to do next time. If you let me.” He lets one finger slide further down Sergio’s ass until it rests just above the tight ring of muscle there. “We might have to ditch them if that’s okay.” Iker presses down lightly and Sergio trembles.

Yeah, that’d be okay. He could live with that.


End file.
